The Indianapolis journal. [volume] (Indianapolis [Ind.]) 1867-1904, 1887-05-08
MATTERS AND THINGS.

Written for the Sunday Journal
The sedate Boston woman does not often drop
into poetry, but when she does something unique
and startling may always be anticipated Wit.
ness the following coupet by a correspondent OF
| the Boston Gazette
But this spring is such q slow c-ss
! Where will iconoclasm endf Noahs ark mas
been decided to be no-such-thing; Shakespeare
didn't write his own plays; Joan OF Arc was
| myth, Casper Hauser a fraud. and now our be-
loved Sam Weller is to be torn away from US,
| il being declared by the high lights OF
| literary England that he was "a liar, a thle1,
| rufian. and an ignoramus Ii Is more 1nan
/ probable that these literary autocrats have SO
! enfee bled their minds and vitiated their tastes
| by reading Howells that they have no longer any
| iiterature There are STILL however, in a few
| out-townships people of sound mind and re-
| spectacle lineage who will cling 20 the old favor
! ties in spite of such modern critical analyses.
| Give up Sam Wellerl Perish the thought!
Away with melancholy. as the little boy said
ven his schoo-nissls died."
Things have come to a pretty pass when the
daily press undertake to instruct or dictate 70
the public on the subject Of dress appropriate
for evening theatrical entertainments. Every
sele-respecting household pays ten cents per
week to Harpers Bazaar for enlightenment on the
dress question, and even should reasonable
doubts arise would about readily consult
newspaper columns for reliable cooking receipts
for trustworthy fashion items. The absurdity
Of this departure in journalism is not its
worst feature, however; the GROWING blow Will
be added when items drifting back
from the Eastern press to the effect that it was
only by the untiring and most strenuous exer-
tions, that the Indianapolis News and Sentinel
prevented the natives from attending the Booth
performance on the haif-shell of linsey -woolsey
and homespun jeans. 1t is such rash bursts as
these which give ingenious an unsophistlcated
fo1E ia ocain ar
peopled by barbarians who wear feathers In their
hair and know net the use of the toothbrush or
the napkin. Furthermore. there is a mild won
der existent in the minds of many as to why and
whence this great and sudden distress as TO our
proper appearance before Mr. Booth2 He has
been here many times before, and every theater-
Goer in the city has seen him in Hamlet" 1T
daily press mbarked in a mission OF in
structing the audiences of the cowboy pianist
there might be some sense In It
Bill Nye and the Lime-kiln Club are still with
us, but Spoopendyke has gone hence. We miss
the lively chronicles of his matrimonial in
felicities. He outrageously tyrannical
and she SO idiotcallv deferential and submissive.
About this time o. year the Spoopendykes would
be making garden; he digging wildly right and
left. choppiug into the toe of his best boots,
now taking tricornered samples out of his Sun
day pantaoons, while Mrs. Spoopendyke sits
the wheelbarrow with her feet
upturned fiower-pot, holding the papers OF flow
er-seeds in her lap and from time to time, cast
ing forth profound and valuable suggestions on
the of gardening After Spoopendyke has |
dug until ne is red in the face and has felt both
suspenders saccomb to his unusually vigorous
exertions, he turns to investigate suspicious |
lull in Mrs. Spoopendyke's remarks, and discov- |
ers that she has been amusing herself by |
emptying all the different kinds of flower |
seeds into her lap in glorious confusion, |
laboring under the delusion that she would thus |
sim plifv the process of planting. That's it." |
bowls Mr.. Spoopendyke; you're genuine lo- |
rist-a profuse bloomer. you are. All you want |
to- HOW and C1ry honI
full of advertisements to be Vicks Floral |
Guide If had your dodgasted Intelligence I'd |
hire out as plant-stand or go on career as |
wire-trellis and let other measiy idiots train |
vines over me. and he makes such an animated |
dash at Mrs. S. with the hoe that she |
leans back and tips herself and the wheel
borrow into the begonia- bed that her |
Industrious spouse had planted the day before.
This is too much. Spoopendyke rushes bowling |
up, examines her dress to see If the loopings
ripped out, and, as she rubs her skinned elbow,
she gazes at the spilled ower-seed, and muir
murs. Il don't care I don't suppose half of them |
had, ne would be sure TO say they weren't the
kind he planted, the color he wanted, or
something-So there!"
Modern housekeeping is more scientific and /
systematic than the old style. butf it is not half
so entertaining The old fashioned spring up
heaval was genuine terror and no exaggera-
ton The house was torn up from garrett to
cellar, and everything movable turned out of
doors. Carpets hung the clothes-line and
feather beds hung over the palings. while every
available bush or shrub was draped in bed
spreads and blankets. For days the man of the
house could not find a place to sit down or to
sat, and hardly to sleep. He had
hard time of it. carrying things, lifting
things, bringing things from down town.
The woman of the house went about with her
head tied up and her business expression on,
while whitewash and soap-sud- struggled for SUI
oremacy as reignine household perfume. Every
hing that turned out of doors had the
7ear's dust beaten and banged out of it. and was
hen put back into the house in a new place. so
he man of the house went around for a time
With black and blue countenance, occasioned
oy humping up against misplaced bedposts in
he dark. The bulk of his leisure was consumed
For Ca1n at III